


Drowned Hope

by Bronywn



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Legend of the Three Caballeros (Cartoon)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Delmara, Depression, Episode: s02e03 The Ballad of Duke Baloney!, Funeral, Hurt, M/M, Misunderstandings, Needs to be adressed, Panchito and José are great dads, Poor Webby, Real Consequences, don't give Glomgold squat, give Louie a hug, give Webby a hug, lots and lots of hurt, more to be added (maybe)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronywn/pseuds/Bronywn
Summary: What if Louie hadn't been able to pull Webby back into the boat during Duke of Baloney?





	Drowned Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bamboozledeagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamboozledeagle/gifts).



> This AU was inspired by a string of ask sent to bamboozledeagle over on tumblr. 
> 
> Go check that out!

Her gurgled screams rang louder than the storm that raged around her.

 

Louie could see her thrashing body with each flash of lightning. Webby was throwing her hands about, trying to break through to the surface in hopes of getting a lungful of air and not the raging water engulfing her. Louie saw her small body trying to get to the boat, trying to reach his out stretched hand. Could feel the ghosting of her hand just barely missing his own before the waters dragged her back once more. Before being shoved forward again.

 

For a moment his hand snagged on the fabric of her friendship bracelet and he felt his heart leap into his throat.

 

Only to have his stomach bottom out when he felt the fabric break free of her wrist, and a bright flash of lightning revealed her body being forced further, and further away from the boat.

 

The water didn’t force her closer after that. It dragged her away and downwards. Louie remembered that Webby was wearing Uncle Donald’s life preserver, it was too big for her when he saw her being pulled down and out of the flotation device.

 

Louie felt his entire world shattering when her body didn’t rise back up again.

 

He felt utter foreboding when a bright lightning illuminated the sky, turning the area where Webby had been a shade lighter than everywhere else before another huge wave swallowed it up, along with his remaining hope that he would ever see Webby again.

 

“Why did you do that.” Louie whispered looking at the man who was raiding their bait supply. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?”

 

“Because I’m Flintheart Glomgold, and I always will be.” The older duck’s laugh grated on Louie’s ears, especially with the way the sky lit up behind him.

 

Irrational anger swept through Louie, and it wasn’t sated by Glomgold getting hit by lightning and losing his beard. Taking a page out of Uncle Donald’s book, Louie threw himself at the man, making sure to keep a hold of the torn friendship bracelet in his hand.

 

“BECAUSE YOU’RE FLINTHEART GLOMGOLD A LITTLE GIRL DIED!” Louie knew his hits weren’t strong, but the surprise of the violent actions caused Glomgold to stumble backwards.

 

“That’s her fault, you can’t trust anyone in this world.” Glomgold had hissed back when he finally gained his bearings once more. He made to lunge at Louie and launch a counter attack, but arms wrapped around the older duck and held him firm. The fog had cleared, allowing the small fishing town to see the little girl thrown from the boat, and the water’s had pushed them close enough to the dock to over hear the short conversation between Glomgold and Louie.

 

Everyone had looks of mortified shock etched onto their faces. No one spoke, no one moved, except for Louie who was bawling.

 

===

 

Donald placed a comforting hand on Mrs. Beakley’s shoulder as the woman stared despondently at the wide expanse that was the ocean. Donald had been a sailor, had been in the Navy at one point, because he loved the water. Loved the sea. That didn’t mean he was blind to how harsh a mistress she could be, raging with storms and causing loss and devastation to good people.

 

Donald could tell the elder duck was lost in her own world as she watched gentle waves kiss the docks. Beakley hadn’t been this way at first, instead she had been in full panic mode when Louie called them in hysterics. Beakley had thought the children had been kidnaped. When a deep male voice had gently asked if this was “the boy’s guardian” Donald felt his world stop, joining Beakley in her fears.

 

The truth was much, much worse.

 

The voice revealed itself to be one of the police whom the coast guard had taken along when the call came in. The call about a murder. Neither adult had connected the dots at this point, both assuming the children had _witnessed_ a murder. Donald could still remember Beakley’s reaction when the police calmly explained just whose murder Louie had witnessed.

 

She had shot up, a terrified look in her eyes, crazed almost. The housekeeper had grabbed the phone and demanded to know the exact location of the town. The officer had given it to her with a note of fear in his own voice. She had shot out of the room in a controlled fast walk, frantically trying to stay composed.

 

Donald himself had slipped into a state of denial. He didn’t know Webby as well as the triplets, but she was still a child he considered his to some degree. Donald wasn’t willing to accept the fact that she may be gone. He had told the officer they would get their as soon as possible. Donald had run until he was next to Beakley who was hissing through the phone, most likely trying to get Launchpad to take them to the island. He remembered yanking the phone from her and placing it to his ear, hearing his Uncle’s Scottish accent filter through from the other side of the phone. Saying something about how he was on the way to sign paperwork for a charity and that whatever Beakley needed Launchpad for could wait.

 

When Donald told him there had been an ‘accident’ concerning Webby the Scottish duck had stopped his ranting and told Donald to meet him at the docks, that Launchpad would take them immediately. Uncle Scrooge obviously didn’t know the extent of the ‘accident’, not until he was talking to the police themselves, but Donald was glad his Uncle knew Beakley was not messing around.

 

Neither Donald or Beakley had spoken a word to Launchpad or Scrooge’s inquiries of the incident, fear pounding in their hearts and denial running through their minds. The first person they saw upon arrival was Louie, who was staring at a wall, eyes unseeing.

 

Scrooge had snapped at Donald, saying that he had said Webby had been an accident not both kids. Donald remembered Louie’s detached response.

 

“Seeing how Webby’s dead and I don’t even have a scratch I’d say that’s pretty accurate.” Donald had flinched at the emotionless tone Louie had responded without even batting an eyelash.

 

Scrooge himself had stiffened, turning to Louie with a whispered “what.” At this point the police officer watching Louie came over, Donald taking Louie in his arms and leaving the officer to reexplain what had happened to Scrooge, Launchpad, and Beakley, who stayed because she needed to know every detail. Especially the ones that couldn’t be given over the phone, like who had thrown Webby from the boat.

 

Louie had begun sobbing again, clinging to the material of Donald’s uniform as the ex-sailor stroked his head feathers softly.

 

“It’s all **his** fault.” Louie had sobbed. “She was too trusting and **he** took advantage of that.” Donald wasn’t able to make out much after that, just the bitterness towards Webby’s murderer.

 

Once Louie had cried himself to sleep to people came up to Donald, faces ashen and miserable.

 

“I’m sorry,” the woman began, voice cracking. “If we had known that Duke- that **Glomgold** would do that…” she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence. Donald knew then what had happened. Glomgold had tricked these people, tricked Webby once again, into believing he was someone other than the wretched, miserable, cold hearted man that he was.

 

And he had used that to kill Webby.

 

Donald had smiled weakly at them, forcing back his own tears. Nodding his head in understanding. He watched them leave and clung to Louie until Launchpad found him, nervously explaining the Scrooge wanted the pilot to take the green clad duck home. Donald had given Louie an extra squeeze before handing him over to go find Beakley or Scrooge.

 

He found Beakley, staring at the ocean.

 

“They’re sending out search parties to find… to find Webby’s body.” The English duck’s voice reminded him of Louie’s, despondent and hopeless.

 

Maybe that was why he had placed his hand on her shoulder, staring at the ocean as well as silence enveloped the two ducks.

 

“She was all I had left of my daughter and son-in-law. A last reminder that both had lived, had loved, when all other traces of them had been erased.” The elder duck flinched, an action Donald felt through his hand on her shoulder. “They knew they were going to die on that last mission. I hadn’t suspected anything, not even when they forced me to promise to do my best in raising her should anything happen to them. But they knew, maybe that’s why they had made me promise, so I wouldn’t lose myself in grief and the guilt of not knowing.”

 

Donald felt her shoulder begin to shake.

 

“Their bodies were almost unrecognizable, explosions tend to do that. Of course FOWL made it look like a car wreck, but I’ve seen enough of both to know the difference. If it hadn’t of been for Webby, I would have lost myself.” Donald heard Beakley’s voice crack.

 

“I promised myself Webby wouldn’t die like them, young and forgotten. That she would be nice and old, and I myself long gone from this world, and her name almost as known and renowned as those she admired.” Beakley began to clench her hands.

 

“In a sense, I was much to over protective. I was the reason why she never _truly_ experienced the world. I kept her inside and trained her for every occasion, so that no matter what she would be prepared. I isolated her, hid her away like some dark secret, in an attempt to protect her and now…” Beakley looked up to him with soulless eyes.

 

“Now she’s gone. They’re going to look for her body but there’s no guarantee they will find her. Her body will most likely lay at the bottom of the ocean, lost and forgotten.”

 

With that she turned her eyes towards the sea once more, eyes unblinking.

 

Donald stood there, arm on her shoulder, anchoring her in the only way he knew how.

 

===

 

It had been a week since the search for Webby’s body had been called off, the coast guard had reluctantly told Scrooge that at this point the chances of finding her body were too low to justify the continued search to anyone.

 

Glomgold was still in jail, awaiting his sentence, though at this point the faux Scotsman was ruined beyond any sort of comeback. Scrooge had focused all his efforts on bankrupting Glomgold and ruining any business prospects her ever held, ruthlessly tearing down his business within days.

 

No one know how Donald did it, besides his explanation of calling in some favors whenever asked, but the ex-Navy had ruined any chance of rebuilding should he not get a life sentence in jail with no chance of parole or time off for good behavior.

 

Beakley had personally broken into the jail and beaten the man half to death before disappearing into the night, no one in the family was sure they’d ever see her again. Not to mention how the fellow inmates were treating Glomgold, child murderers were on the same level as pedophiles, scum.

 

Scrooge was sitting on Webbigail’s bed, head burrowed into his hands. Regret pouring out of every pore.

 

All those years she had lived in the mansion, had idolized him, and he hadn’t noticed her until recently. Even then she took a back seat to Della’s kids. It’s not like he had intended it, it was just easier. Webby was so much like Della he hadn’t wanted to get attached in the beginning. The Scottish duck had still been smarting from the loss of Della, that a young girl, like Webby, who had the same type of soul as his niece was someone he avoided almost religiously.

 

Sure, he had taken her along on adventures, it would have been odd to specifically exclude her. Even though Scrooge was terrified he’d lose her and Bentina would kill him. He had focused on the boys, and didn’t respond to her abundance of knowledge or jubilation Webby showed in each adventure.

 

But slowly she had wormed her way into his heart, and looking back on it now he wished he had allowed her in much sooner.

 

Pulling his head from his hands Scrooge looked at the room. Taking in how lonely it looked, how lonely Webby must have been all those years. Sure she had nick knacks, stuffed animals, and other things you would expect to see in the room of a girl Webby’s age, but something was off. It wasn’t the fact that meticulous research of his family and himself littered a board, or that she seemed to have individualized dossiers of each and every member of his family, enemy, past adventure, or spy mission he was involved. Though it was quite… odd. Rather it was the fact that this would’ve taken someone twice her age years to complete as a job, meaning no distractions of youth.

 

There was no doubt in Scrooge’s mind that Bentina had loved that little girl something fierce, but at the same time every child needed someone their age. Donald had Della and vice versa, Webby had grown up alone and secluded. Safe and happy, absolutely, but lonely none the less.

 

And the room showed that. Showed every fiber that had made up Webbigail Vanderquack, good and bad. Loneliness and joy, fear and confidence, sinking despair and hope.

 

It hurt to be in here, a room that like Donald and Della’s would be preserved in an attempt to cling to the remains of the young duck who had lived in it. Yes, Scrooge would lock the door like those rooms as well. As much as he adored his nephews, and bless his bagpipes did he adore them, he couldn’t trust them not to touch something essential. To not blindly trample on the traces she left behind.

 

Or maybe he wanted to prevent them from getting stuck in the past like he was.

 

Scrooge tried to steel himself, he had come her to gather a few of Webby’s things for the funeral. Donald was too busy consoling the kids, and he couldn’t ask Duckworth to do it. He hadn’t disappeared like Beakley, but the ghost had been rather down as of late. Scrooge remembered that he had been somewhat close to Webby, both when the butler had been alive and after his spirit had come back.

 

The Scottish duck pushed himself off the bed, preparing himself for heart ache only to have his attention caught by a book shoved between the wall and dresser. Scrooge could tell it had been placed there quickly and it drew his eye in a room so meticulously maintained to neatness or cluttered intelligence.

 

So he reached for it without second thought, flipping open the cover to read the contents inside. Only to feel his heart clench, for it was a diary. Scrooge remembered briefly seeing Beakley hand it to Webby one day, with a soft “Happy Birthday darling”, less than a week before Donald and the triplets had come back into his life. He remembered being in a particularly foul mood that day.

 

Against his better judgement he began to read the unassuming book, wincing at the way it described his early callousness to her. Letting lose a brief chortle as she elegantly wrote the story of her first encounter with Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Fondly smiling at the detailed recounting of her ‘first ever adventure outside the manor’. He felt his heart squeeze as the entries grew in length as Webby experienced new feelings, thoughts, and adventures. He read as the girl’s loneliness began to ebb but never completely disappearing. He couldn’t help but feel proud as she put more of herself into the little book, proud that her entries stopped focusing on what she called ‘the blandness of before. Before the triplets came and reawakened the part of Mr. McDuck that Granny always told me about’. He could almost feel his grin breaking his face when she described her first ever ‘McDuck and Webby’ team up.

 

He tried to force himself to skip the entry dated for the day his family had fallen apart again. But he couldn’t as there was only one sentence, accented by dried blotches of what must’ve been tears.

 

_I shouldn’t have said anything, Mr. McDuck is right. I’m not family._

 

At that sentence he flinched, horror slowly dawning on him.

 

He had never apologized. The time had never seemed right, and now he never could.

 

Scrooge tucked the book into his coat, promising that he would read the rest later. After he had gotten the belongings necessary for the funeral and locked the door. He had to choose the items that the room wouldn’t miss, and yet still represented Webby. They would placed in the empty casket, where her body should be.

 

The situation reminded Scrooge eerily of Della’s.

 

===

 

Dewey stared at the coffin with utter hatred rolling off of him in droves.

 

Sure, it was beautiful. The sleek wood was polished and little flower designs delicately hugged the sides. But honestly, it was all wrong. It represented something Dewey couldn’t get behind, a horrible truth hidden by the beauty.

 

Webby was _gone_. As stupid as everyone thought he was, Dewey knew _exactly_ what that meant.

 

And that coffin exemplified everything wrong with life at that moment, including how it didn’t hold her body.

 

One of his best friend’s was _dead_ , drowned by someone the entire family had written off as a joke. Someone Webby had wanted to help. Dewey refused to call it foolish like Louie sometimes bitterly mumbled in his troubled sleep, because that was just Webby being… well, Webby.

 

That didn’t make it any easier to swallow. In fact it just made it that much worse. Glomgold’s trial was today, enough witnesses stepping forth so Louie didn’t have to go in and testify. Dewey was grateful for that, the youngest triplet didn’t need to recount the events again, didn’t have to consciously relive the nightmare that plagued his sleep.

 

His eyes narrowed at the coffin as he fought back tears. Unhearing of all the beautiful words spoken about Webby as he glared at the empty coffin. Everyone stepped forth, one at a time, laying a pink flower on the casket. Donald corralled Huey, Louie, and him towards the coffin, giving each a pink flower.

 

Huey stepped up first, eyes blood shot from crying, as he tended to do when he thought no one was looking. When he didn’t have to be strong for Louie and Dewey. He placed his flower on the coffin before curling into Uncle Donald’s side, fighting back the tears that wanted to fell.

 

Dewey forced his body forward next. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to acknowledge that Webby wasn’t coming back, though he knew she wasn’t. He slowly lowered his flower towards the lid, only to crumple onto the coffin and begin bawling. Clutching at the wood desperately, harsh screams ripping from his throat. Uncle Donald had wrapped him in his safe embrace, gently pulling the middle child from the coffin.

 

Dewey didn’t notice, he was too busy sobbing.

 

Louie approached the coffin last. Eyes blown wide, pupils focused on something in the distance. He hadn’t spoken in the days leading up to the funeral, Dewey remembered weakly as he stifled his sobs to see how his younger brother would act. Louie had dark bags under his eyes, a testament to the fitful sleep he had whenever he could catch any, his feathers were slightly matted, Dewey noted. The middle child watched through bleary eyes as Louie reached into his suit pocket, pulling something out to tie to the rose.

 

Dewey noticed a few seconds later it was Webby and Lena’s friendship bracelet.

 

The middle triplet watched with despair as the flower was lowered onto the coffin, and Louie stepped back. Despondently burrowing into Uncle Donald’s other side. The four of them stepped back as Scrooge stepped forward, a single white rose clutched in his hand.

 

Uncle Scrooge joined them, standing close to Louie and putting a comforting hand on the youngest Duck brother’s shoulder. Though Dewey couldn’t decide who got more comfort from it.

 

The family watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, right next to Della’s. The plot had been meant for Donald when his time came, but the ex-sailor insisted it be given to Webby. They didn’t know where any of her other family members were buried.

 

“She’s family. Webby reminds… reminded me of Della. I’d like to think Della has been waiting for me on the other side for years. Maybe with Webby joining her… maybe they can both move on.”

 

No one had questioned it or argued.

 

After all it felt right, to have the two the two empty graves next to each other.

 

===

 

Donald slowly released Louie from his hold, lowering the young boy onto the bed to sleep. The triplet clad in green hadn’t been able to have a peaceful night’s sleep since Webby’s death. Louie would either sleep fitfully or endless nightmares would haunt him. The youngest needed his Uncle’s and brother’s now more than ever, and the family was willing to provide for him.

 

Scrooge had been strangely accommodating, in a distant sort of way. The Scottish duck went about everything in a haze, the only thing that seemed to grab his full attention was a book of no name. It reminded Donald of Della’s journal, and how he had behaved until the eggs hatched and he was forced to move on. Not to say he didn’t still look at it, it was tucked safely away from danger and prying eyes. Donald had resigned himself to give it to the boys when they were older, but he still hadn’t decide when older was old enough yet.

 

With that book, the book that looked so simple an unassuming that it could only be Webby’s, Donald knew Scrooge would never give it up.

 

He paused in his thoughts when his personal cell phone began to ring.

 

It didn’t happen often, as the number was only given to _really_ good friends, but when it did Donald answered without fail. Seeing Panchito’s name on the screen had him hitting the answer button as quickly as possible.

 

“Donald, José and I need to tell you something.” Panchito began and Donald let out a sigh, if it had been anything life threatening or dangerous Panchito would’ve been talking rapidly without any pleasantries. Thank God for small miracles.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“Donal’ we found a child and she is wonderful and ours now. Her name is Delmara Carioca.” Donald wanted to be happy for them really. He knew his friends and fellow Caballeros would never kidnap, or adopt, a child without going through the correct motions. But the name reminded him strongly of his sister, and the thought of a little girl served only to pour salt into the open wound that was the loss of Webbigail Vanderquack.

 

“Oh that’s- that’s great.” Donald winced as his voice began to quiver. He fought back the sobs that threatened to spill over.

 

“What’s wrong?” Panchito’s voice was serious and held no room for argument.

 

So Donald broke, he shattered into millions of pieces and shoved them over the phone into Panchito’s waiting arms.

 

He talked about the brave little girl who he hadn’t realized was like a daughter until recently. A small child who was lonely, courageous, and so very kind. Of how her trusting innocence had gotten her killed.

 

This went on for about an hour before Donald finished his story with how it was affecting everyone.

 

How Huey had become more protective, the red clad triplet forcing himself to mature so he could stand as a barrier between his loved ones and the world. How he hadn’t allowed himself to cry in front of anyone.

 

How Dewey had become more cautious, less likely to throw himself headfirst into something. He seemed to be off kilter, telling smalls jokes and turning slightly to see the reaction of a girl who was no longer there, who would never be there again.

 

How Louie was devastated. Lack of movement was now caused by major depression and not laziness. He would stare at walls for hours and cry at random. The youngest triplet seemed so despondent.

 

“Oh, amigo, I’m so sorry."

 

===

 

Panchito hung up the phone with a gentle kind of sadness, promising to tell José when Delmara was asleep.

 

“Padre?” A lively voice asks, head tilted to the side causing locks of blue hair to fall across her face. A face that he and José had sworn to protect when they first realized she had no memories, and no one seemed to be looking for the little duckling, and yes despite the pale blue color of her feathers they knew she was a duck.

 

They had named her Delmara because they had found her along the shore, prone body truly ‘of the sea’.

 

“Yes, mija?” Panchito questioned bending down to be more on her level.

 

“You seem sad.” At this Panchito had to hold himself from scooping her up in his arms and never letting go. She always seemed to know when something was bothering either of her fathers, and was always so intent on fixing it, love was a two-way street after all.

 

Instead he just gently picked her up and begun swinging her around.

 

“But sadness is a fleeting emotion when you are surrounded by the ones you love.” He cooed.

 

“Like me and Papá!” She giggled happily.

 

“Exactly!” Panchito smiled setting her down. The little duckling fixed her outfit, which consisted of an old faded green V-neck, which acted as a dress, that José used to sleep in before he had donated it, and two more just like it, to Delmara. Panchito had done the same with some of his old red shirts, and she alternated on which color she wore. A thick grey cardigan sat on her shoulders, a nice buy from a local thrift shop. Two bobby pins held back her bangs.

 

“And we will love you forever, mija.”

 

Around her wrist was the only remaining article tying her to her past, a pink bow.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this is currently a one shot but may write more? Who knows.


End file.
